Gods Among Us - The Uchiha of the 4th Era
by TwoChimpsWithoutOne
Summary: There exist stories from times long past. Stories of warring clans and the 'Shinobi' warriors who populated them. Stories of the spectacular spells that many wielded, long before the time of Mer, when only Man existed. These stories have been lost to history, as have their spells, but nothing remains lost forever, least of all the god-like abilities given to those cursed by hatred.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N:_

_Inspired heavily by the Skyrim mod 'The Uchiha Clan', this story stems both from my desire for an OC story to exist in the Skyrim crossovers, and because I want to play around with the Sharingan. _

_I present to you a story that takes the universes of The Elder Scrolls and Naruto, mixes them together, and takes the concepts of both to (presumably) logical conclusions. _

_Try and stick with it, because I think you all will be rather pleased with the outcome. _

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><p><em>Prologue<em>

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><p><em>Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power.<em>

_-Abraham Lincoln_

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><p>When one is asked just what they would be willing to do for power, they would be likely to give many different, varied responses. Those born with power would be willing to do anything to get more. Those born righteous would only be willing to do that which is good to get power. Those born evil would be willing to do <em>everything<em>. But if one asked a weak man what he would be willing to do to get power, one would get the most interesting result.

The Masked man considered the answer of the dark-haired battle mage on the table below him. Mask had asked this man what he would be willing to do to get power, and the man had responded with 'Only what is necessary'. Where once this very man, who had been born weak and had had to work for every single thing he'd ever gained, would have said he was content with what paltry excuse he had for power was enough, now he was willing to do whatever was necessary to gain more. Nothing evidenced this more than the object which Mask removed from the Mage's coat, which hung from a rack several inches to their left. This container was filled with a very pale green liquid, and suspended within this liquid were the eyes of what had once been the single most powerful man on Nirn, but now was a rotting husk in the abandoned Naka Shrine. These very eyes would be that which would grant the Mage all the power he needed, and more, Mask knew from experience.

It was in an extended, nearly oppressive silence, that Mask gently placed the container on the table to the left, which itself had a vast amount of surgical equipment spread across it. Most of them scalpels and knives, others being anesthetics and drugs, and even a few scrolls to keep the man in the magical coma he had to stay in, lest Mask damage him irreparably.

It was as Mask put on a pair of surgeon's gloves and picked up a scalpel, that the surgeon thought on the story the nearly blind man below had gone to great lengths to explain in full.

* * *

><p><em>His <em>story had began, as did another, in Helgen. But unlike the story of the Dragonborn, who would find his place in Nord legends, the story of Markus Nil was far more personal, far more grounded. He awoke this morning, as he would many others, in bed with his lady wife, though unique to him would be the sounds of his infant screaming its head off, demanding milk, demanding a changed undergarment, or simple wailing its desire for attention.

Markus slowly rose to a seating position, his legs swinging out in front of him, landing softly on the chilled wooden floor. With a deep, exhausted sigh, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and tried to remove the sleep from his eyes, his child wailing the entire time.

"Do you have it?" His similarly exhausted wife asked from the other side of the bed.

"I do." Markus nodded, before he brushed his hand through his long, jet-black hair and stood up. It only took a few steps for his lean, muscular legs to make it from his bed to the baby's carriage, and the screaming half-elven child calmed down almost instantly after its father was sighted. "Hello, little one." Markus said lowly, but friendly, as he reached inside to pick the child up. "What is it you need now?" He did the usual ritual, checked its diaper and gave it some attention. His daughter slowly began to get rampant again, and Markus soon came to a conclusion. "You are hungry, aren't you?" He asked, "alright... Alright, calm down." He said softly, exiting the room and making his way to the stair case. He and his wife lived in a quaint two-story home in the out-of-the-way city of Helgen; with him being the unofficial magical adviser to the Jarl _and_ a trusted source for work in the citys' guard, he certainly wasn't hurting for comfort.

However, his lifestyle shown in the spartan nature of his home. It had only what it needed, and the little more that it was afforded came from his wife. He ignored much of his furnishings, instead going straight for the kitchen, where he found a small potion his wife had had her friend make. For when she was too exhausted to feed the infant, this potion was the next best thing, and Markus didn't question it, as it made its effectiveness readily apparent when it quieted down the crying infant immediately after she began drinking.

"There we go." Said Markus, gently cooing his child, a small smile stretching across his face as he looked in to her eyes. Two deep, onyx orbs, inherited _directly_ from her father, though the liquid gold sclera were certainly gifts from the elvish side of her family, no doubt. "There's a good girl." He said absently, as his daughter drank her fill, content that her needs were being met. Markus had once joked to his wife that little Rela could dominate even the Greybeards' voices with her shouts.

Soon, the infant was finished with her food and, after her father rocked her back to sleep, was brought back to her carriage to rest. Markus considered sleeping again, but by now he was far too awake, and was recalling details of the previous days, the most important being his promise to assist Rigna in the stables, as she was _convinced _one of her horses had been bewitched. He also had a few errands to run and a book to pick up, so he may as well start now, the sun was up.

"Ruma." He said softly, placing his hand on his wife's shoulder. "I am going to head out."

"Please pick up cheese from the general store." Murmured the tired altmer, "and don't forget my book."

Markus smiled, "of course. I'll be back." He said, before he got dressed in good, comfortable work-clothes – a pair of trousers and a well-worn miner's T-Shirt - and fetched his coat. The coat being a gift of his wife's creation, it was a thin, comfortable piece of clothing, that stretched past the back of his knees and came to just above his calves. It contained upon it an enchantment on it so that, no matter what elements it faced, be it extreme heat or the unending cold of Skyrim, he would always stay at the same temperature. Such magic was beyond the Nord, but he appreciated it nonetheless, and wore it nearly everywhere.

Exiting his home, Markus took in a deep breath of the freezing Skyrim air. Today was warmer than most others, but that helped little, because 'warmer' than below freezing still meant that it was freezing cold. That in mind, he wrapped his hands in gloves and strode out in to the road, noting with interest the sound of _multiple_ approaching hooves and the turning of wooden wheels. He looked to Helgen's main gate and could see in the distance an approaching convoy, Imperials it looked like. He could almost feel the hatred in the air grow, while he personally cared not for Skyrim's civil war, many in Helgen worshiped the very ground that Ulfric Stormcloak walked upon.

"Torolf... What is that?" Markus asked as he passed his friend, pointing at the approaching Imperials. "Something going on?"

"You're damn right there's something going on." Said an obviously jubilant former-Imperial. "They _did it!"_

"Did what?" Markus wondered, pausing in his stride to listen to the man.

"They caught Ulfric Stormcloak!"

* * *

><p>Now, much of the story had already been told, in some form or another. The dragons returned, Alduin attacked Helgen, the Dragonborn fled the town, no one survived. That, however, is not the story Mask had been told, and was not the story that was being focused upon; much as the Dragonborn's story was interesting, it was not the story of Markus Nil. Where the Dragonborn had escaped Helgen by the skin of his teeth, Markus had been gone already, and had subsequently missed those first six minutes in which three quarters of the town had perished. Be it through luck, divine intervention, or perhaps an ancient curse breaking through the barriers of fate, he had survived.<p>

He would wish he hadn't.

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><p>There are a great many kinds of pain in the world. There is the subtle, slow, throbbing pain that accompanied injuries that were so low on the tiers of importance that one would forget about them as soon as they'd been recognized. There were sharp, stinging injuries of surprise that were similarly forgotten about in time. There were the continuous injuries that came with cuts and stabs, but after a month of recovery – or a few hours in the care of a mage – the intense, sharp pain would too dull in to nothingness. Then there was the blunt, continuous pain of physical trauma, of shock, of injuries to the head. This type of pain would not cease even after it was dealt with, sleep only made it worse, activity made it worse than sleep, and medicine or healing spells did little until they were finished.<p>

Markus Nil felt that blunt trauma pain as he was slowly roused to consciousness. The back of his head hurt like he'd been punched by a drunk orc in Jorrvaskr. His body was sore, and he felt a few cuts had been carved in to his flesh, but what he noticed first above all of those things was the smell of fire. Or, perhaps to be more specific, the absence of it. Be it burnt wood, foliage, or – the Eight save him – _flesh, _he noticed the smell of it all before he noticed his own pain, because with the horribleness of the smell and the level of ambient heat around him, he knew that this was no small campfire or a the aftermath of a controlled burn to get rid of weeds: Something was _wrong._

He forced himself to wake up completely, and when his eyes opened he noted immediately how dark the sky was. As opposed to the earlier, dingy gray, it was now stormy-black, and whatever sky behind the stormclouds was a deep red. Markus sat up quickly, making his head shriek in pain and his world go dizzy, he reached up to cradle his head and his hands came away bloody. He bit through the pain and tried to locate himself: Where was he? A moment of searching told him he hadn't made it a few steps out of the stables, but while he couldn't find what had hit him, he could find what was making the smell of fire.

Helgen, the entire city, was burnt to the ground. Ashes floated about the air like snow, coating anything and everything in an eery gray horror.

_"Ruma!"_ He screamed, his voice barely rising over the thunder of the clouds, before he – throwing caution to the wind – ran straight through the destroyed gates and in to the incinerated city.

The heat of the burned city around him was oppressive, but his wife's rune was stronger, and he zipped his coat up tight and continued running, one sleeve over his mouth so as to keep his lungs from being burned too bad. He sprinted along the main road and after what felt like an eternity, found his home, and almost immediately fell in to despair: There was an enormous, gaping hole in its roof, and he could still see within it the last remaining remnants of the fire that had consumed the entire village. Worse still was his entire house had none of its old color, it was all black, burnt, and ashen.

Markus didn't hesitate: He ran straight in, yelling for his wife and child as he did so. He prayed to the eight divines and the forbidden ninth that he wouldn't find any bodies, that they had made it out and were with the Imperials, or maybe in Riverwood or Whiterun. He _had_ said a very long time ago that if something happened to him or to the village that Ruma was to go to Jorrvaskr, he had still had friends there who would recognize his seal, and would care for Ruma despite her race. Horrifyingly, Markus wondered if Ruma even remembered his instructions, or had his seal with her in the first place if she did.

_"Ruma! Rela?! Where are you!?"_ He called out desperately; crashing through the door to his and his wife's room. He didn't hear the muffled sounds of voices distant outside, they weren't the sounds of a crying infant or a terrified elfmaiden, so they didn't even register to his panicked mind. He didn't care about the slow building pain behind his eyes either, the air was hot and the ashes were hotter, whatever it was it would pass. _"Please! Answer me!"_ They weren't in their room, he tried the guest room and found the door was locked tight.

Markus remembered one of the earliest alteration spells he'd learned – one of the _few _alteration spells he'd learned – and called it to mind to increase the power in his muscles. With a loud roar and a powerful kick, the former battlemage destroyed the door to the guest room, but found that this had been the room that had been destroyed, there was no one in here.

_"Rela! Daddy's here, call out to me child!"_ He cried desperately, before he mentally punched himself – Ruma was no fool, unlike him, she would know beforehand that heat _rose,_ so why in Oblivion would she hide in the upper levels of the house?

These thoughts in mind, he hurried for the basement, not heeding the Imperial at his door, who called out for him to stop, that he was here to help. Markus didn't care for the Empire right now, he didn't care for the war, he didn't care about Ulfric Stormcloak or how in Oblivion the fires had started, the only thing he even remotely cared about was confirming that there weren't any charred corpses in his basement.

He stormed down stairs and in to the basement, and was frozen at what he saw: Two bodies, one tall and woman-shaped, one small and wrapped up in an infant's bundle. They both were burned almost past recognition, but Markus _knew_ it was them, he _knew_ it was his wife and he _knew_ it was his child. Around the larger body's neck hung a small pendant, in the shape of an ancient fan. The colors had been bleached by flame, but he recognized it for what it was: His father's pendant that he'd given to her the night he'd proposed marriage.

He stumbled forward, his feet like lead, his blood thundering in his ears and his eyes practically on fire. He didn't hear the sounds of boots upstairs, nor did he care. He fell to his knees next to the two burnt, charred corpses, memories of his past flashing unbidden through his eyes. He remembered first meeting the elf, back during his days at the College of Winterhold, she had transferred in from the Mage's Guild in Cyrrodil, primarily for the better magical education, but also for the change in scenery. The fact that Winterhold had less of a politically charged climate helped, too, a great many people suspected her of ties to the Thalmor.

Slowly, almost disbelievingly, he reached forward and gently placed his hand on the face of the burnt husk that had been his wife. It visibly startled him when the bodies fell to ash and lost their form, they just _burst_ and fell apart, like a sand castle being held together only by the surface tension of the dry, warm sand. Before he knew it, the corpses that had been both his wife and his child were piles of ash around his knees, the only thing left being the pendant that caught his fingers. He stared at the pendant, wide eyed and slack jawed.

It was like the damn burst at that very moment, the combination of the grief of losing his family, the rage at not being able to protect them, the shock that he was now covered in their ashes, and the horror that this had happened in _one day,_ all welled up inside him and burst with a loud, intense roar. He shouted himself hoarse, not caring for the men in the room with him, not caring for the burning feeling in his eyes that was building to a crescendo, not caring for anything but the memories he could now never have. He saw red, he felt pressure build in his mind and around his eyes, anger, rage, sorrow, so many horrible emotions built up and burst from within as he cried, cursing the heavens.

And unbeknownst to everyone in the former city, a figure who stood at the summit of the mountain overlooking the city's burnt husk turned its blood red eyes to a single, specific building. It narrowed its eyes as the three jet black tomoe inside the red irides spun. It felt the power suddenly _gushing_ out from the village, and though this power was soon silenced – no doubt from its possessor fainting due to the unfamiliar strain – the familiarity of it was what resonated with the figure.

It adjusted the ceramic mask it wore on its face and pulled the dark black fur hood tighter over its head. Silently remarking how interesting it was that, in the same day, the Dragons had returned, the Dragonborn had awoken, and an _Uchiha_ had revealed himself. The figure turned and began walking down the other side of the mountain, having gotten what it needed, and making a mental note to watch this one. Perhaps he could succeed where the figure could only ever fail.

One thing was for certain, though: A new chapter was going to be written upon the pages of Tamriel History, and within it would be written the return of the Uchiha.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 1_

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><p>The first thing he felt when he had woken up was exhaustion. For several moments he did nothing, simply feeling the carriage he was in move underneath him, jostling every few seconds by the odd pebble or oversized stone. His mind was clouded by lethargy and it took him a minute to remember all that had happened the previous day, the death and destruction, the ashen corpses falling to nothingness around him. Groggily, he sat up, seeing now he was in the back of an Imperial carriage, and they were on their way towards Whiterun, if the roads they were taking were any indication.<p>

The driver and his passenger noticed he was awake, and said as much, prompting Markus to ask for clarification: What in Tamriel had _happened_ the previous night?

"Ah... How much do you know?" The driver asked, his Nord accent as thick as Markus' hair.

"Nothing." Said the former battle-mage, as he clenched his pendent tight in his hand. "Absolutely _nothing."_ Anger and hate laced his last words.

"Well... I don't know how to tell you this, so I'll just say it: The Dragons have returned, and one attacked Helgen just yesterday. So far as I know, you're the only survivor." The driver explained, "we are on our way to Solitude, we are going to stop by Whiterun during the journey. You are free to get off wherever."

Markus nodded, slowly laying back down as he tried to get his head back on straight. _The Companions... They'll take me in, at least as long as it'll take to get my mind back in to focus._ The man thought, _Kodlak still owes me a favor, so if they don't take me I can call on that for at least a few nights of rest and food._ Thinking on those lines made him realize that he was now financially challenged, all of his money had burned in that house, and the only money he had on him would be nowhere near enough for a meal and a room at an inn.

Markus groaned, rubbing his subtly burning eyes. This wasn't helping him at all, he'd probably hurt them somehow, running through his destroyed home like that. Stupid mistake.

"How long until we make it to Whiterun?"

"At this speed? Maybe an hour... Tulius is trying to consolidate our forces, get everything we know all organized so we can have a plan of attack." The driver explained.

"Please wake me when we arrive..." Markus requested, before he promptly passed back out in the back of the carriage.

His dreams would be haunted by the visions of his wife and child dying, burnt alive by dragons while he was helpless to stop them. Even though he wouldn't register it, the entire dream was back-dropped by a dark red sky, and a jet black moon, and all of their eyes would be not as he remembered. Different, but not noticeably so.

* * *

><p>"Hey... Sir!" A muffled voice called, before Markus was given a prompt smack on the head.<p>

The Helgen-survivor was upright in a second, a touch-based lightning spell in the hand that only stopped an inch from the face of the Imperial soldier who nearly got himself killed. Markus' dreams had _not_ been pleasant, the soldier knew that almost instantly, but what sold it was the look of rage in the man's red eyes.

"I apologize for waking you so..." The soldier said, slowly straightening and backing towards the edge of the carriage, his hands raised placatively. "You asked us to wake you when we arrived at Whiterun... We have arrived at Whiterun."

The crackling spell faded from the palm of Markus' hand, which went to his eyes a moment later to rub the burning feeling away from them. He'd woken up too quickly, he reasoned, the light had burned with an odd clarity for a few moments, but when the pressure that had surrounded his eyes went away, everything went back to normal.

"Thank you..." Slowly said Markus, the extra sleep had helped, but only just. "Do I owe you anything?" He hoped not, but he would work his debts if he had any.

"Nothing." Said a new voice, Markus recognized it only after he saw the face it belonged to: General Tullius. "But if we need someone's word on the return of the dragons... No one's word will weigh more than someone who survived _Helgen." _Said the man, as walked up to the side of the carriage, his horse being attended to as the caravan rested.

Markus got to his feet and threw his coat over his arms. "I am not sure how much help I can provide... But I will provide what help I can." He _had_ been knocked out barely after everything had started, but he was sympathetic to what the Empire did, so if they wanted him to help, he would help with what he could. "I wish you luck, General." Said the Nord, after he stuffed the pendent – that had been clutched in his hand the entire night – in his coat's pocket, he was _not_ ready to wear it again.

Markus bid farewell to the other Imperials, and made his way to Whiterun's gate. The guards were harassing a few of the civilian entrees, but they let the Imperials enter after they only _mentioned_ they had come from Helgen and were looking to rest. Markus snuck inside, hiding himself amongst the soldiers, and after entering, made his way north, to Jorrvaskr.

Two minutes of walking through the peace of Whiterun, and he made it to the Companions' mead hall. He had forgotten somewhat, what Whiterun sounded like, it was like Helgen but not, there was less quiet contentedness and more city-like white noise; in other words it was louder here than home. Though that was not at all likely to change when he entered the mead halls, which he did after a moment's hesitation. It wasn't that he had left the Companions on bad terms, much the opposite, he had been allowed to leave amicably after he'd learned what it took to join the Circle.

With little room for hesitation, Markus entered the mead hall and was immediately blasted by the warmth of the massive fire in its center, the sounds of men and women drinking mead and eating a feast fit for the heroes of Sovngarde. If he focused he could hear the sounds of songs being sung above the dull roar of mealtime. It took barely a moment before one of the old faces recognized him.

"By the eight, is that who I think it is?" Called out a gruff, weathered voice, and from the small crowd of Companions came Kodlak, the Harbinger, if his armor was any indication. _"Markus Nil!"_ He took three great strides and met the former battlemage in a bone-crushing hug, which Markus repaid in kind. "Gods, it has to have been _years,_ old friend!" The Harbinger released the battlemage and gave him a quick look over, "I see your wife has had no trouble feeding you." He grinned dastardly, "how is she? Have you two had a child, yet?" Many of the Companions had been against Markus and Ruma's wedding, and though Markus had his suspicions that Kodlak had been among them, he was glad to note that Kodlak accepted it out of glee that his shield-brother had found someone with which to settle down.

Unfortunately, Markus' couldn't lie to his friend, and as such his answer was simple, "she is dead." Kodlak froze, an almost incomprehensive look on his bearded face. "As is our daughter, as is Helgen." Saying it aloud made it all the more real for the Imperial, and though it still pained him, it also made it easier to accept.

Kodlak's previous jubilation was dropped almost instantly, "is everything alright, Markus? Are you hurt, do you need help?" Kodlak asked, rapid-fire.

"I know little, but I think the circle needs to know what I do." His unsaid words were clear to the battle-weathered Harbinger: What Markus had to say couldn't be said in public, not yet.

"I see..." Said Kodlak, nodding slowly. "Unfortunately, Aela and Farkas are out, they were hired to slay a giant." He said offhandedly, running his hand through his beard as he thought.

Markus blinked, a light grin coming to his face. "Little Aela made it in to The Circle?" He chuckled, "gods, how long have I been gone?"

Kodlak grinned as well, "oh, she is not little anymore, old friend." He patted Markus on the back and led him to the feasting table, "her skill with a bow could outmatch most Imperial archers. I shall gather Skjor and Vilkas, I know they are still here. Until then, _eat,_ I know not what Ruma fed you but you need _meat_ and _mead_ if you're going to be staying here any longer than the night."

Markus smiled and accepted the Harbinger's offer, snatching a plate off of the table as if he hadn't been gone for more than a decade. "Oh... This is one thing I most certainly missed." He said assuredly, as he filled his plate with as much food as he felt he could keep down, for as starving as he was, his appetite had flown off, like the dragon that had destroyed his home.

* * *

><p>"Alright, Markus, we're all here, so what's this all about? What happened?" Came Skjor, after the battlemage and the Harbinger joined he and his fellow Circle member in their small cavern.<p>

Markus gave the two a look over, like Kodlak, they had gained their share of scars over the years they had been apart, but they were largely the same, and they were likely still as trustworthy as they had been. "What I'm going to say is going to sound insane, but I swear to you it is the truth." He said seriously. The three Circles nodded, "several days ago, the Legion came gallivanting through Helgen, they had Ulfric Stormcloak and a small garrison of prisoners with them." He explained.

"Ulfric Stormcloak? _The_ Ulfric Stormcloak?" Kodlak confirmed, to Markus' nod.

"That's exactly what I said. But their execution went awry when -"

"Awry?" Came Vilkas.

"It went wrong when a dragon flew in out of nowhere and began attacking."

The air went still, the three Circles couldn't believe it. "A dragon? Are you serious?" Kodlak asked, "the bringers of the end times?"

"Indeed." Said Markus, leaning up against the wall. "I was there, I saw it land just a few moments before it made the sky itself begin falling around me. I was knocked out before I could take up arms..." He said angrily, "but when I woke up, the entire village was on fire." He saw the question forming on their lips, "my wife and child did not make it. They were burned to ash before I could get to them."

"Oh _gods..."_ Said Vilkas, "and you _survived?"_

"I am here, aren't I?" Said Markus, slightly bitterly. "I knew I had to come here, after I woke up being transported by the Imperials. If anyone, the Companions needed to know the new dangers of wandering Skyrim... Perhaps the _world,_ now." He said.

Skjor chose this moment to add his two septims to the conversation. "Is there something you're holding from us, Markus?" He asked, "it looks like there's something else."

"It is nothing." Markus said, waving it off, but the Companion was insistent, which made Markus sigh. "Okay... It is a magical issue." He said, which immediately set the three Companions on edge, rightfully so, there _were_ no mages in the Companions, only fighters, and the occasional bowman. "I've thought little of it, but it has been on my mind." They Companions knew they had to listen now, despite their lack of interest, they _had_ asked. "My dreams have been haunted by Helgen, and ever since I've woken up feeling a pressure around my eyes, like there is more blood around them than usual." He explained, "it might be because I am tired, but each time I've noticed it I've also noticed that I am more fatigued – magically – than I was before."

Fortunately, though they disliked magic in the Companions, a cursory knowledge was appreciated when joining the Circle, for reasons only the members themselves knew. It was for that reason that Kodlak spoke his thoughts, "perhaps seeing your wife and child dead altered your control over your abilites, somehow." He said, "but I have also fought with mages who had abilities that were given to them through blood, though I only ever learned about this because these abilities were activated through the stress of battle." He mentioned offhandedly, "perhaps you should speak with Farengar, he would know more than us."

"Is Dragonsreach still open, with dragons about?" Markus questioned.

"Likely, _especially_ if the Legion stopped here, then General Tullius will want to speak with the Jarl." Vilkas responded.

"I see... I'll head over there now, then." Markus shoved off the wall, and then the thought occurred to him. "Unfortunately, I don't have any gold on me -"

Kodlak caught him before he could speak, "if you need a place to stay, stay here. I'm certain we can work something out for an old friend of the Companions." His grin was not missed on the battlemage.

* * *

><p>Dragonsreach hadn't changed at all, in the many years Markus had been gone. In his own words, it was still an ancient, glorified burial sight. Markus had once found it astonishing that people had questioned the existence of dragons, after he'd seen the dragon's skull for the first time, but before Helgen, he had always assumed they were extinct, never to return. Now, however, he had his own problems to worry about – whatever the dragon's return meant, the Empire would likely deal with it, they <em>did<em> have experiences with acts of the gods: The Oblivion Crisis came to mind.

Markus had had to finagle with the guards outside for a few minutes, they had apparently already let in one man and were not as ready to let in another. Fortunately for Markus, by virtue of technicality he was with the Companions again, as temporarily as that may turn out to be, so he did use the 'Companions' Business' excuse, and they eventually let him in.

Markus walked up the massive steps, making note of the intense discussions going on between the Jarl, his steward, and the dark elf Markus had never been able to discern the relation to. He nearly collided with a determined looking warrior wearing a full set of iron armor, the two apologized briefly before they parted ways. Entering the court mage's office, Markus noted the barely contained glee shining brightly in the man's eyes.

"Oh, I'm afraid I do not recognize you... Can I help you... Sir...?"

"I had no parents, I'm afraid, so my name is Nil." Markus said kindly, "I came here because I had a problem of magical nature, and my own education was ill-prepared to solve it."

Farengar gathered himself and nodded beneath his hood. "What is the issue, if I may ask?" He asked, his light voice rather friendly to his fellow mage.

"I recently experienced a _very_ traumatic event. Ever since, I've noticed that when I awake, I feel a pressure behind my eyes and my magicka pools diminished." He said, "not significantly, but enough so that I could feel it."

"Hm..." Farengar looked more interested than Markus would have expected him to, "it is rather fortunate you mention such a thing... I've been brushing up my own knowledge on bloodline magic ever since the rumors began that the Thalmor have been hunting down any of the ancient bloodlines." He said, before waving it off. "I am afraid I know less than members of the college would know, as my libraries aren't as comprehensive, but I do know the basics of bloodline magic, and one of the conditions to utilize such magic is to experience intense emotional trauma." He paused, before adding off-handedly, "well, one can utilize inherited magical skills if he is trained to awaken them, but that usually requires a familial basis. So -" He didn't give Markus time to speak, "you say you feel a pressure behind your eyes when you awake?" He waited for Markus to nod, "would I be correct in assuming that ever since this experience you have been having nightmares, in place of normal dreams?" Markus nodded again, "then I would suggest you first try to remember what trauma you experienced in the first place, and then try to channel your magic behind your eyes, and we shall see what happens."

Markus was apprehensive, "I was something of a battlemage in my younger days... Do you truly think channeling an unknown form of magic inside Dragonsreach a _good idea?"_

Farengar scoffed at this, pretending to be offended. "Please, sir Nil, have a bit more faith in my abilities. I am certain I can contain whatever it is you unleash, most bloodlines merely give one enhanced magicka pools or skills in a particular branch. An example would be the Altmer's Highborn ability, or an Imperial's Voice of the Emperor." He raised his hands, and Markus felt a slight rush in the air, "if it makes you feel better, I have erected a barrier in the doorway, so please – show us what you've obtained."

It irked the battlemage the way Farengar spoke so freely of what came from his family's death, though he _had_ purposefully not told him what he'd seen, so he let him off. Markus nodded and called to mind everything he'd felt when he saw the ashen corpses of his wife and daughter – the indescribable rage at the heavens, the unending, ceaseless sorrow for his family, the _pain_ in his chest. He felt his heart-rate climb, and then began channeling his magic; first it began in his gut, and then it traveled through his body. When it made it to his eyes, he then felt the pressure behind them, shocked slightly at how it suddenly felt _familiar._

"Open your eyes." Said Farengar, making Markus jump.

Markus complied, but almost had to force his eyes shut again when everything looked _different._ It wasn't like the colors of the world had changed, or his eyesight had been ruined, much the opposite – the colors were sharper, the details of the world clearer, but beyond that he realized that even his peripheral vision had sharpened – he knew not the words to describe it, it was as if his eyesight had improved by simple virtue of channeling magicka in to them. Was such a thing possible, without alteration magic?

Markus was shaken when Farengar audibly gasped, "what is it?" He turned his gaze from the mage's desk to the mage himself, lightly noticing that he could see all the details of the man's face; even though it had been cast in shadow thanks to his hood, Markus could see the faintest wrinkles, the individual strands of hair from the man's beard, the utterly bamboozled look in his deep blue eyes. "Is something wrong?" Markus repeated.

Farengar shook his head, "er – one moment!" He dashed under his desk, muttering something about how he _knew_ he had a mirror around here somewhere. "Here!" He held the mirror up triumphantly, with a light chuckle, "look at this, now!" He handed it to Markus.

Markus accepted it and brought it up to his face. Nothing had changed, except his eyes – their original, onyx coloration had changed to a bright, blood red. In the center of his eyes was the smallest black pupil, and orbiting around it were three others, almost exactly the shape of the amulet he'd recovered from his wife's ashen corpse.

"What... Is this?" Markus tore his shocked gaze from the reflection of his eyes to Farengar, who had somehow retrieved his two books on bloodline-magic and was rifling through them both at impossible speeds.

"It is _literally_ history..." Farengar said, distractedly. "It has to be here – there!" The second book had what he was looking for, and in the time it took Farengar to _point_ at it, Markus' eyes had seen the page, analyzed its contents, memorized all of it, and translated its knowledge to his mind, telling him exactly what the mage was going to say. "Extremely little information, very few people even know about it, it's so old... But if you looked hard enough, bought the right books... The secrets of the most ancient magical lore could be opened to anyone." He slid the book over to Markus, and pointed at the image. "What you've awakened is one of the most ancient and powerful magics to have ever existed... You are in posession of a _Sharingan!"_


End file.
